An excerpt from Descent by Sabrina Broadbent.

I wish I could remember why I had felt compelled to be brave about this. It was to do with being able to cope, so as not to inconvenience you who would have had to look after me for twenty-four hours. You thought you were going to be away. It was so I didn't have to take a whole day off work. And face the wrath of bloody Lesley.

The surgeon leads me through the double doors of the operating theatre. A masked nurse is taking instruments out of cellophane with gloved hands. She doesn't look up.

'Climb up on the bed,' says the surgeon.

The bed is high and lit by powerful lights. No wonder it's called a theatre. Underneath one end of the bed is what appears to be a giant pickling jar and a piece of hose. I clamber up and lie down.

'Put your feet in the footrests,' says the nurse. Looking sideways, I see her approaching with a giant, wet, brown swab on a stick. Jesus, what a terrible job, I think, suddenly ashamed at the careless way I had brought them all to this point.

'This may feel a bit cold . . . try to relax . . .'

I try not to but cannot really avoid seeing the needle, which is, of course, horrifically long. Then I feel the needle. But this isn't what I fear most. What I fear most is the suction. And when that starts with the unmistakeable sound of the vacuum pump, the deep, uterine aches begins. I stare at the ceiling trusting that someone has worked out a pain threshold. I was probably born on a bed like this. Will quite likely end up some way or another on a bed like this. At the sound of liquid dropping into the container beneath my feet I begin to wonder whether I could manage to faint. The surgeon and the nurse say nothing to each other at all. It doesn't take long.

'All right, you can get down off the bed now,' says the nurse.

As I walk to the door I want to turn to look at the bottle under the bed. But the nurse is already covering it in a sheet of yellow plastic.

In the gloom of the side room I am told to lie down for ten minutes while my paperwork is completed. There is a dull pain low down in my womb. I feel like crying but I don't. I take off the paper gown and start to dress. Then I sit on the bed and wait. I can hear the low voice of a another woman talking quietly to the surgeon next door. I wonder how many of these he does a day.

'Your husband is here,' says the nurse. I look up. And there you are, standing in the doorway, half in and half out. You. I love the sight of you. You are awkward as you kiss me hello.

'Are you all right?'

'I'm OK.'

You've brought me something in a bag. Inside is a large sticky rum baba with a bite taken out of it. You busy yourself with picking up my things.

You hold open the swinging doors and we walk out together, leaving the pickling jar behind us. I wish it goodbye in my head. Offer an apology of sorts.